


Sherlock Holmes and the Elegant Creature Feature

by maxthebd



Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Elegant Creature Feature [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cryptozoology, M/M, Other, Science, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxthebd/pseuds/maxthebd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes needed a new field biologist. He had no idea what else he'd run into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes and the Elegant Creature Feature

Dr. John Watson ruffled his hair and winced at the cloud of dust now falling from graying blond locks. Whispering an apology to those around him, he hoisted his rucksack over his shoulder and watched the crowd part for him. A feat made that much easier since the crowd consisted of scientists and field technicians, all smiling and clapping him on the shoulder when he passed, providing low, congratulatory remarks.

“Congratulations, Dr. Watson. We can’t wait to go over your findings.”

"Many thanks," he responds, stepping out of the plane and into the gate waiting area, surrounded by several other filthy passengers. 

He did not miss the smattering of unusually well-clad agents strategically positioning themselves around the terminal. 

All of which had eyes on John. Tired, blue eyes scanned over the rather-obvious agents, all ignored by the departing British passengers who, frankly, all probably had other things on their minds.

If it was disinterested they wanted, disinterested is what they would get.

He ran his hand through his hair once more and made a face at the dust cloud and light brown powder on his hand..

"I'm disgusting," His steps light, his attention never on his destination but on the two burly suited agents now following him into the mirrored bathroom. John trekked to the nearest washroom to wash off his face.

One way in.

The same way out.

John dropped his knapsack and kicked it underneath a nearby sink. He spun to lean against the lone window barely illuminating the washroom. 

He heard the agents’ shoes on the tile before he saw them.

"Dr. Watson, we ask to you accompany us." The blond of the duo announced, his nasally tenor bouncing off of the concrete walls. 

John looked up to see the black man next to him, even taller and broader than his partner, nod. "Please come with us, Dr. Watson. We won’t ask again."

John's lips quirked up to mock the agents of some unnamed agency as they advanced. 

"Wouldn't do that, if I were you," he responded, his voice gravelly from the the 10-hour flight and two days of being knee-deep in stale cave air and potentially disease-ridden guano. He looked to his pack, laying unnoticed nearby and relaxed against the window's block wall. 

"Dr. Watson, we insist. We are prepared to use force."

"Who are you? MI-5, MI-6? You're too polite for CIA. And you're not mercenaries, because I vaguely remember wearing a similar suit about 10 years ago." John tapped his finger against his fuzzy chin and waited for both men to come within two meters of him.

He struck, throwing his jacket at one and dropping low to kick the other's legs out of under him. Most underestimated him for being short , but frankly, it worked in John's favor. With an elbow to the blond's neck, he swung his foot over to the blinded agent, still fighting his jacket, whoever hired these idiots was slacking. His booted foot connected to the agent's midsection and dropped him to the floor with a solid "thud."

John's smirk morphed into a grin while he slid a hand to his bag and flipped the clasp, grabbing his pistol and pointing to the recovering, weaponless agents.

"Imbeciles. You wanted to take me by what, your hands? Ha."

He barely felt the tranquilizer dart sink into his wounded shoulder and the subsequent drop to the floor, but did hear the bass of the tallest agent tell him, "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. We did say 'by force.'"

~*~*~

Bad idea.

Coming to, that is, and John Watson would admit it. Just as soon as he found the registration to that double-decker bus responsible for the wretched pounding in his skull.

“Whoa, Doc, easy there. Those darts are a bitch when you recover.” Big, gentle hands pressed against John’s aching shoulder and pushed him back onto what felt like a velvet sofa. “One of these days, Sherlock, you’re going to tell me why your brother hires thugs instead of actual university interns.”

A cool cloth pressed against his forehead, granting John the opportunity to just listen to the speaker’s voice. It sounded warm, tugging him out of the sedative’s reach. 

John needed to see who the hell owned those damned hands.

 

“There we go,” the voice rumbled, joined by another, sonorous voice that had John jack-knifing to sit up and immediately regretting that move. He let the first man push him back onto the sofa for the second time.

“Hey there, blue eyes. Welcome back to the land of the living.” The cloth came away, leaving a head topped with silver in its place. “Sherlock, come meet Dr. Watson.”

“Splendid,” a near-growl drew John’s attention to the second speaker leaning over the back of the sofa to peer into John’s face.

Black curls, porcelain skin and cheekbones. Those cheekbones would be the cutting death of someone.

Fuck, this man is beautiful. John acknowledged and refocused his attention when the other man started to speak. 

“John, as much as I admire your ability to drop my brother’s agents, I’d advise against future repeats. Mainly because those darts hurt like hell and Mycroft is very generous with their use.”

Long, slender hands wrapped themselves around John’s shoulders and stayed there.

John acknowledged that for once, he didn’t flinch upon contact. No, twice. That and these two were clearly handsy.

“Let the headache pass, John.” ‘Sherlock,’ this had to be Sherlock, lifted John’s legs and sat on the cushion left open.

Now John was slightly uncomfortable, again.  
d  
Sherlock laid John’s legs back down and left them on his lap. Wasting no time, Sherlock leaned his elbow against John’s booted foot and flicked the other to a set of double doors John must have missed during the initial room observation.

“What are we waiting on?”

“Not what, who,” Greg answered him, perching on the sofa’s arm above John’s head. “The prat always takes his fucking time, every time. Sherlock, text him. Tell him we have cake.”

A grin teased along Sherlock’s lips and gave way to a brilliant smile.

John ignored the new heat under his collar.

“That joke is terrible. I love it.” Sherlock fished through his pockets and unearthed a phone. WIth a few quick strokes, he leaned back into the sofa and sent off the text. “Ten, nine-”

Both doors flew open to bang against the room’s plaster walls, a furious mahogany-haired man stomping with a phone in one hand, and a folder getting ready to fall out of its brother. “SHERLOCK! How many times-”

“Must you raise your voice, Brother mine? John is in pain.”

Brown eyes locked onto John, who stilled when the newest arrival walked up to the sofa and stood there to stare down a sharp nose. “Yes, Dr. Watson, I presume.” The lingering look of disdain almost made John shudder.

A large hand squeezed his calf, reminding him of Sherlock still with him on the sofa, looking completely at home with a stranger’s legs in his lap.

“I am Mycroft Holmes, and you are currently recovering in the Administrative Offices of a nondisclosable agency that-”

“MI-5,” Sherlock chirped, a winning smile growing on his face at Mycroft’s outraged “SHERLOCK!”

“He’s a high government official. On paper, he’s an accountant. Oh, breathe, Mycroft and sit down before your blood pressure drops you.” Sherlock gently moved John’s legs and stood to tower over his brother by mere centimeters. “John, I need you.”  
Mycroft sat down, striking what should be a power pose, save John getting distracted by a squeeze to his shoulder.

Greg. Who grinned and rolled his eyes. 

The power pose proved useless on Sherlock, who demonstrated his immunity with a smirk that could bring lesser men to their knees.

 

John sat up and cleared his throat. “You have my attention.”

“Sherlock leads a small team of researchers in the search of-”

Lightbulb. John sharply looked up at Sherlock. He knew this beautiful, brilliant idiot. “Sherlock Holmes, the cryptozoologist. We met in Edinburgh.”

Sherlock’s weight shifted and he rose a smidge higher, clearly pleased. “You remember. John, you’re the best field biologist on this side of the Atlantic and I need you.”

John eased himself back into the sofa and crossed his legs. Now he felt better. “I’m not due for travel for at least another year. I still have the Tasmanian findings to go over and-”

“If it’s grant money you’re concerned about, this team is fully funded.”

“That’s not-”

“You being diagnosed with PTSD? Due to a firefight during that last expedition? Fire her, John. The four of us know you enjoyed it. Just like you enjoyed your tussle with my agents. Despite what that almost did to your shoulder.”

Another page turned, Mycroft peered up at John and cocked his head to the side. “Hiding it only cements the truth, Dr. Watson. I am offering you a generous salary. All I ask is that you ensure my dear brother keeps his head affixed to his neck.”

An eyebrow rose, John unsure if he wanted to know about Sherlock’s potential enemies or not. But he remained silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What say you, Dr. Watson? Will you accept the offer?” Mycroft held the folder out to John, who gingerly accepted.

John looked back to Mycroft, fixing a lazy glare upon the brunet, who returned John’s look with a placid look of his own. Finding no amount of give on the older man’s face, John shifted his attention to the other two and eyeballed Greg, who smiled and looked at an all-but-preening Sherlock Holmes. “What are we looking for?”

Sherlock bounced back to the sofa, immediately sitting next to John and scooting close enough to pin the blond in the sofa’s corner. “Oh, my dear Dr. Watson. We’re hunting for Bigfoot.”


End file.
